


If It's Alive, It Will

by Basic_instinct40



Series: If I Live Too Long I'm Afraid I'll Die [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Recovering, D/s elements, Dom Steve Rogers, Face Slapping, Gallows Humor, I talk about the decor of their house a lot, Let me know if I need to add more tags, Light BDSM, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Steve Rogers, Power Dynamics, Relationship Negotiation, Relationship Study, Sex Talk, Sex doesnt truly occur in this one but I talk around it, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve doesnt like the outdoors, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25293418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basic_instinct40/pseuds/Basic_instinct40
Summary: Steve dries his hands on a towel, taking too long to answer back. “That’s me, Bucky. Your menace.” He stands in his vagina colored bathroom, naked, and feeling out of sorts.Alt Summary: Old men should look where they are going.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: If I Live Too Long I'm Afraid I'll Die [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731574
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	If It's Alive, It Will

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set several days after Mr.Owl and features two flashbacks. I hope someone enjoys this story. 
> 
> I used to think i was the only one  
> But I've learned quite a few things since then  
> And i guess no one ever really is the only one  
> My friend if it's alive, it will do anything  
> And if it's strong believe it will go there  
> And if it's full of love, know it is capable of  
> Emptying itself out at any point at all  
> Just know the height you reach is the distance you could fall  
> \--If It's Alive, It Will-- By Angel Olsen

_Fourteen months ago_  
~~~~~  
“He’s finally out.”  
Steve glances at Pepper from his position on the couch. She stands alone, outside the doorway, and this detail should be revealing enough. Pepper doesn’t want anyone else to witness the unique conversation they were about to have. Her face is swollen and splotched cherry with unshed tears. The hour is late, close to 3 am and Steve doesn’t see sleep in sight for either one of them. He isn’t sure how long he sat in the Avengers common area by himself, Natasha disappearing to her own room when she realized it was a fool’s errand to stay up with him. Bucky is in medical, also alone, and bearing one less arm than when his day started. 

Steve clears his throat, the silence between him and Pepper growing uncomfortable. “That’s good. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tony drink that much before.” 

Pepper crosses her exposed arms, her face trying out a grim smile. “Lucky you.”  
Steve opens his mouth to say more, but clamps it shut. They were in this mess because of him saying too much, or too little when it was decades too late. He whistles out a tiny breath, his mind twisted with all the ways he could have handled the situation better. Steve catches onto Pepper’s tired, but sure footed movements. She sits on the edge of the plush loveseat that is next to him, back straight with her long elegant fingers folding in her lap. Her features were calm, but firm. Steve knew this pose, seen it used on Tony countless times, she is here to manage him. Manage the situation. 

“You changed your clothes,” he states, dumbly. 

“I did. The others got singed.” She doesn’t say it sarcastically, or as a joke. Steve wonders what Tony did to deserve such a woman. The sadness in Pepper’s voice sounds genuine to his superhuman ears. 

“Steve, you and Mr.Barnes can’t stay-” 

“I know,” Steve doesn’t mean to sound rude. “He and I will leave as soon as he wakes up.” He licks his lips, the familiar feeling of dependence coiling around him. “If that’s alright with you at least.” 

Pepper scans the common room, her face calculating. “It shouldn’t be a problem, but it’s probably best if you’re both gone by morning.” Her eyes fall back to him, and Steve can’t help the polite smile he gives her. Tony said they were friends, that he trusted him.

****************************************************************  
_“You need to choose.” Tony pointed one gin swindling finger at him. Steve wasn’t sure how many drinks the man had consumed. “But if you pick him, Rogers.” Steve saw the tears clumped together in the corner of Tony’s eyes, before a look of realization cleared them. “You knew this entire time didn’t you? You knew he killed them?”_

_Steve tried to deny it, lying to the drunken man surrounded by weapons seemed to be his best bet. Bucky always said he was a lousy liar. It wasn’t Steve’s first mistake of the day._

_Tony made his first mistake when he ordered Jarvis to seal Bucky in medical, turning his back on Steve as if he wasn’t a threat. As if he was a friend. He threw his shield at the door blocking his exit. Carrying it with him now a habit after Hydra’s resurgence, and it never failed to come in handy._

_“Okay, you didn’t just throw your goddamn shield at me,” Tony’s calm voice doesn’t match with the cloak of rage he wears. “The shield my father made for you. You didn’t just throw that at me, in my own home.” He stalked toward him, stabbing at the ground with each word._

_Steve doesn’t know how this man can call himself his friend and not get why he behaves this way. Tony is a cubicle mate who thinks knowing a handful of details about him makes them close. Bucky is his friend and Tony was standing between them._

_It’s a choice, but it isn’t a hard one. Steve had already made it when he decided not to tell anyone who murdered Tony’s parents._

_“It wasn’t him, Tony.” It isn’t a lie for Steve to say this. “Hydra had control-,”_

_“Don’t bullshit me. It’s bad enough you’re trying to convince yourself that your old war buddy isn’t some baby-faced assassin.”_

_The conversation went from bad to worse, leading Jarvis to alert Pepper and any of the nearby Avengers. Natasha and Clint were the closest, Tony having already notified them about Bucky’s presence. Steve tried to remember that these people were his teammates, that he didn’t need to analyze who he would need to take out first. Once he made that switch in his head, them versus him, there would be no running back._

_They corner Steve in the workshop, Clint and Tony talking about containing Bucky, Natasha planting herself between him and the door as if he wouldn’t notice, and Pepper trying, but failing to bring a level head to the situation._

_“We will have to take the arm,” Tony said to Clint. He’s forgotten or doesn’t seem to care about Steve. “If we can get the arm then-,”_

_“You aren’t going to touch him, Tony.” Steve zipped up his jacket and tightened his shield to his forearm. “Now, are you going to let me pass so I can collect Bucky, or will I have to make a path?” He spoke to Natasha, her green eyes watching, waiting. Steve would have to put her down first._

_“Yeah, listen up, oldie locks. You need to simmer down and get with the plan.” Tony moved himself in front of Natasha and Steve estimated at this angle he could take them both out with his shield. “You are going to listen to us because it’s us!”_

_“Tony, let him go.” He had forgotten about Pepper. She hadn’t left from her position near Tony’s various computer monitors._

_Tony’s glare never left Steve. “Pep, you need to stay out of this.”_

_“What exactly is the plan?” You’ll tear the building apart if you keep this up.” Steve felt her eyes on him. He recalled the experiments performed on her and moved her up the threat list. “He isn’t going to stop.”_

_Tony showed his back to Steve. “But you expect me to? Let him and the biodroid fuck off to the elderly folks home, huh?_

_“I think we need to focus on what we can do in the now, okay?” Pepper talked to him slowly, a mother soothing a hurt child._

_Tony walked towards his desk, grabbing the bottle of gin he’d pulled from a concealed alcove. Preoccupied with watching him, Steve almost failed to notice Natasha’s head tilt. She was advising him to leave._

_“The arm stays with me,” Tony declared._

_Steve took a step back. “No one is taking his arm.”_

_“The arm stays with me. It killed my mother. It’s my goddamn arm,” Tony bellowed._

_Natasha spoke for the first time since entering the room. “I’ll go with Clint and Steve down to medical.” She nodded at Pepper, an unspoken conversation taking place in a matter of seconds. “You’ll let us know about the decision.” Natasha reached for Steve and he went with her willing if solely to have Bucky in his sights._

_Pepper huddled close to Tony, obscuring his view. She didn’t touch him, but her voice carried out to the hallway. “I know, I know,” She repeated patiently over the other man’s rants. “But this isn’t the way. It won’t bring them back.”_

***************************  
“Steve?” Pepper uses that same patient expression on him now. He wonders if she possesses an endless supply.  
“Sorry. Tired.” Steve drew a hand over his face. “We can be out of your hair by dawn.” 

“And Mr. Barnes is still fine with the arrangement?” Pepper speaks as if Bucky losing his arm is a simple business transaction. A friendly repo woman who hates to do this to them. 

Steve’s laugh is without amusement at the idea. “Yeah. He is. I don’t know why, but he will give Stark the damn thing.” 

Pepper doesn’t seem put off by his words, but there is no warmth in her face. “It isn’t a straightforward decision for anyone. I assure you that I’d rather be doing anything else.”  
“You aren’t giving up a part of yourself,” Steve fires at her. “He is asking for too much.” 

Pepper sits up straighter, her skin turning back to its normal color after her argument with Tony. “I’m sure if you asked Mr. Barnes he wouldn’t see it that way.” 

Steve opens his mouth to argue further, but she cuts him off. “I’ve been in a relationship with Tony in one way or another for almost two decades, Steve. So, against my better judgement I’m going to give you some advice.” 

“Ummmm, alright,” Steve replies, put off by the abrupt transition in subjects. 

“You have to open yourself to thinking in a different way if you want Bucky to get better and if you have any hope of thriving on your own.”

Steve frowns at her. “I don’t understand. Are you threatening me?” 

“No,” Pepper chuckles. “But take it from someone who has chosen to be with an exceedingly complex individual. Boundaries will look different for you both.” 

Steve can’t help the look of exasperation he delivers her. “Bucky isn’t that rough. He isn’t some psycho.” 

Pepper slides on a patient smile. “I wasn’t referring to Bucky.”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
_Present Day_  
The sound of his bathroom door shutting pulls Steve from the blankness of his nap. He blinks the room into focus and listens to the sound of Bucky in the Jack and Jill bathroom that separates their bedrooms. He can hear water hitting the bottom of the empty bathtub, and the firm press of his bladder urges Steve to rise up from the bed. Walking naked to the bathroom door he knocks, “shave and a haircut”, and works his mouth open to speak. 

“I can hear you breathing from outside the door,” Bucky calls. Steve hears him shutting off the water. “Come in, creeper.” 

Despite the invitation, Steve is hesitant to turn the knob and face Bucky. Face the person who hours ago, Steve had bent over and had his way with him. That part has never been a problem for them. He toys with the idea of getting back into bed and never getting back up again, but Steve really needs to pee. He steps into the bathroom, turning to see that Bucky has drawn the tropical fish covered shower curtain around him, and away from Steve’s gaze. 

The tiles, Pepto Bismol pink, the same as the rest of the bathroom, are cold underneath Steve’s warm feet and he shivers at the contrast. Lifting the toilet seat, he relaxes himself to do the business he came here to do, ignoring the splashing musical taking place behind the curtain.  
He is mid-stream when a sharp wolf whistle sounds out. “Nice globes you got there, Steven,” Bucky taunts.  
Steve stiffens momentarily before finishing up. “Didn’t take you for a Peeping Tom,” he calls back. He flushes the toilet and moves to the free standing sink, a dreary organ shade of pink that reminded Steve of tongues, and washes his hands. He peers into the medicine cabinet mirror and sees Bucky’s hand slip back behind the curtain, a magician’s sleight of hand that Steve almost doesn’t catch. 

“Didn’t take you for a flasher,” Bucky echoes off the bathroom walls. “But you’ve always been a menace.” 

Steve dries his hands on a towel, taking too long to answer back. “That’s me, Bucky. Your menace.” He stands in his vagina colored bathroom, naked, and feeling out of sorts. The tropical fish on the shower curtain all have their names underneath, written out in elaborate cursive. Bucky’s concealed movements send the portrayal of a parrotfish dancing, coaxing Steve into a trance. 

“Steve, pal?” Bucky's voice rises slightly. “You still here?” 

Steve dries his already dry hands, bunching up the towel and standing straight from his odd lean against the sink. His backside is numb. 

“I’m here, Buck.” 

A tremendous splash resonates from the fuchsia stained basin of the tub, water threatening to tip and soak the bathmat. “Great.” Bucky makes the word sound anything but. “Could you do me a big favor and get the fuck out so I can drown myself in peace? Would that be too much of a bother? ‘Cause if it is, I could drag your Irish rose ass in here with me and choke the--”

Steve is out the bathroom door before Bucky can finish his detailed drowning fantasy. He stands in his bedroom, hands balled into fists, the hand towel still with him. Showering would be ideal since he is covered in his and Bucky’s bodily fluids, but the other bath is Bucky’s and the downstairs is a half bath. 

Steve throws the towel down and finds his boxers, sliding them on. The sun has practically gone down while they slept and Steve gets a wisp of fury at losing the day to he and Bucky’s fucked up mind games. He stomps around the room grabbing up their fallen clothes from the carpet, then in a childlike act, discards them back. _“Let Bucky be the one to clean up after us for once,”_ he thinks hatefully. Picking up the book that he has been reading on and off, _Foucault’s Pendulum_ by Umberto Eco. Steve finds his place and tries to lose his thoughts in the conspiracies of the shadow governments end of the world plot. 

The faint swishing sounds of bathtub water are no longer audible and Steve hears the unmistakable click of Bucky’s door opening and closing. He sets his book on his chest, counting to one-hundred then counting backwards to zero, making sure that the bathroom is truly vacant. He gets up with a weary sigh, dog-ear marking his place in the book, and goes to wash off the afternoon. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
Steve is getting dressed when Bucky comes in to announce that he is leaving for his nightly wood stalk and smoke. He’s dressed to leave, outfitted in a pair of midnight black slacks held up by a silver chain belt and a dark forest green button up. Bucky has the sleeve pulled up on his remaining arm, and in his hand he holds a pre-rolled cigarette. Steve can’t take his eyes off Bucky’s thick, tan forearm and he tramples down the distinct image of himself gliding down to his knees to gnaw at the arm. 

“Why don’t I go with you tonight?” Steve suggests. The question takes them both by surprise.  
He gives Steve an appraising stare before rolling his eyes. “Fine, you can come along if you promise not to run your mouth about wearing insect repellent or zombie deer ticks.” He places the cigarette behind his ear and smooths his hair back. Steve’s dick perks up like an enthusiastic puppy. He wants to take Bucky to the woods and see if he can get him to drink out of a puddle. Dare him like when they were kids. He wants Bucky to say, “I double dog dare ya’ to do the vilest shit to me, Stevie.” God Almighty, why was he like this? 

“You ready or not?” Bucky asks. 

Steve shakes his head yes and pulls on a plain white t-shirt wondering when Bucky has time to go shopping for his clothes. 

“What size is that shirt, Steve?” A boy’s small?” Bucky calls over his shoulder, already halfway down the stairs. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
Steve is not an outdoorsy person. He thinks camping as a vacation is ridiculous when you have your own air-controlled home. He got his fill of rugged living during the war and deems people who want to get back to nature as bored. There is a reason man left the wild and built cities. Steve owns a home out in Nowheretown, Pennsylvania, surrounded by a sizable chunk of woods, because he values privacy. Doesn’t mean he delights in being in control over the property. He and Bucky came to an understanding that he would be in control of the home and car repairs after he went down the dark tunnel of WebMD one horrid night.  
“For the last time, you can’t get lyme disease, you insane fuck,” Bucky roared, snatching the print outs of symptoms that Steve gave him to read. “You are a super soldier that can heal from nearly anything. Stop this. No more. The laptop is going bye bye now.” Bucky admitted that throwing the device from a two story window wasn’t necessary. “It was you or it, Steve.” 

Since then it was Bucky’s responsibility to maintain the outdoor property which he took to with gusto. Steve found the nightly perimeter checks to be a bit overkill, but it seems to settle Bucky. The early June air is warm and not yet stifling, and Steve is energized by the exercise. He casts a side glance at Bucky as they follow his worn path into a cluster of trees, the sun now a distant memory. 

Twilight looks good on him, but Steve can’t think of an earthly backdrop that wouldn’t. It’s a slap in the face how deep his love runs for Bucky, a daily habit that Steve has carried out decade after decade. Loving Bucky created and destroyed him. More than his Ma dying alone in a TB ward, more than being a stranger in Peggy’s eyes, or being born in a body that had no place in the world. It is equally thrilling and dull to be in love with the same person day after day.  
“You keep staring at me instead of what’s in front of you and you’re going to fall on your big dumb nose,” Bucky warns. He takes the cigarette from behind his ear and lights it. He changes brands constantly, never able to stay loyal to one. 

Steve takes his advice and watches the path in front of him, the crescent moon half risen in the night sky. He tries to savor the beauty of the moment and feel present, grateful, or several words that end in -ful that his therapist would tell him to try. Steve tries to just feel whatever he is feeling, but when he reaches for it he comes back empty-handed. Steve is tired of himself, tired of the constant moments that he needs to be present for and the stress of doing it correctly. He wonders if there is a nearby puddle. 

“Talk to me,” He says a little too loudly. “Tell me something, anything.” Before Bucky can respond with a kooky statement that will leave Steve reeling for hours over it’s exact meaning, he back tracks saying, “Tell me a story about when you were by yourself.” It’s what Steve calls the two year period after Bucky pulled him out of the Potomac. Bucky doesn’t call it anything. 

They walk deeper into the property, venturing to areas that Steve hasn’t been to since they moved here. The dark tresses of the trees stretch out and extend into one another, overwhelming him. The eerie press of unseen eyes causes Steve to stumble closer to Bucky, and he glances at the other man’s face, illuminated orange from the flame of his cigarette. “Alright,” he finally answers, exhaling smoke in the opposite direction of Steve’s face. It’s an old habit that Steve finds puzzling more than endearing. Why keep this one and not others he wants to ask. Who's deciding these things in that tumbleweed brain? 

“I worked at this used bookstore for a time when I was living in Romania. Did I tell you that?” Bucky asks, taking a drag from his cigarettes.

Steve answers no, not wanting to say more and lose Bucky freely revealing parts of himself. 

“Yeah, well I did,” Bucky continues. “Not because I was hurtin’ for cash or anything. I cleaned out enough Hydra safe houses to keep my head above water for a few years. I think I just--,” he pauses, buying himself more time by finishing his smoke. He stops walking to stomp on the bud and remains silent when he bends down to retrieve it from the dirt. 

“You what?” Steve prods at him. Impatient for more. 

“I missed being around people.” Bucky smiles, sadly. He stands up straight, pocketing the trash, and they continue the perimeter check. “Normal people who have dumb issues and worries like where to go to lunch or what dress to wear to a party.”

There’s enough moonlight to help Steve’s superhuman eyes notice Bucky’s quick peek towards him. _“Oh,” Steve thinks. “I should say something back.”_

“That doesn’t seem unreasonable,” Steve says. “After everything you’ve been through I’m sure you were--,” he trails off, searching for better words than his own. He thinks about what Ms. Guerrero would say. “People need people,” he finishes limply. The sentence feels cardboard dry coming out of his mouth. 

Bucky’s laugh is devoid of cheer. “Uh, yeah. Okay, Mr. Self Help. Pulled that one outta your ass.” He doesn’t wait for Steve to respond before he moves on with his story. “Anyway, I only worked there for a month and a half before I came back so I wouldn’t go adding stock boy under assassin on my resume.”

They walk in silence while a thousand questions flood Steve’s brain. He can’t think of many that won’t send Bucky into a fit of rage. He picks a neutral one, hoping to keep Bucky talking. “Did you like working there?” 

“Yeah, I did,” Bucky answers. There’s a crisp longing in those three words that send a spike of envy through Steve, but he denies it access. “The store is family owned by this old couple and they hired a couple of local kids and down on their luck bums like me.” 

Steve frowns at his choice of words. “Come on, Buck. You aren’t--,”

Bucky cuts him off with a flat stare and biting speech. “Save it, Rogers or you won’t get the rest.” He connects his brows together, silently observing Steve who clamps one of his palms over his mouth as if to say, ‘See, I’m saving it.’

Bucky accepts the gesture and begins again. “When the Fall came most of the university kids went back to school and they needed someone to come in during the night shifts to clean and help lock up.” 

“There was this one manager, you would have loved her if you ever met, she’s a real spitfire. Name’s Ren Fong and she’s this little wisp of a thing that knows how to wield a baseball bat upside any asshole’s head that tried to get a five finger discount.” A genuine smile dances across Bucky’s lips as he describes the woman. 

The spike of envy is back with full force and Steve tampers it’s mounting assault down with a question. “She became your friend?” You and this Ren?”  
Bucky aims a sly smile at Steve as if he can read his mind. “Mmmm, yeah. She and I became friends.” Steve pretends to find interest in avoiding exposed tree roots and the implied meaning of Bucky’s friend. 

“I’m glad you had someone.” A distant hoot from an owl answers Steve instead of Bucky. They’ve about circled the property and will be home soon. Steve ponders what to make for dinner, and if he should donate his France painting to the local art museum. He thinks about anything to stop himself from obsessing about the man walking next to him in the dark. 

“You know,” Bucky starts in and Steve wants to yell that he doesn’t know anything. “When I was by myself for those two years it wasn’t all horrible. Yeah, I was running around stuffing pieces of my head back together, pieces of whatever the fuck I am, but it wasn’t this melodramtic tale that you have in your head for me, Steve.” Bucky isn’t walking anymore, instead he stands erect, fist clench at his side. 

Steve inhales the cool musky scent of the forest, his neck itches with invisible bug bites that Bucky will claim not to see. He doesn’t know why he asks to come along on this fool’s errand. “That’s not what I think, Bucky.” He stretches his arms out in the space between them, fingers spread, and shoulders relaxed. He remembers watching a news special on hostage negotiators who were trained in defusing dangerous situations. Steve keeps his voice low and placid. “I actually don’t know anything about that time because you won’t tell me.”

Bucky loosens his fist, but his posture remains stiff. “I was living my goddamn life. I was doing whatever it is that people do with themselves.” He combs his hair back in small hurried motions and meets Steve’s eyes. There’s a haunting behind his gaze that Steve can’t rid them of, the shadow of a little boy that he wants to take from the corpse that cages Bucky. That cages Steve. It’s all there behind the storm clouds of Bucky’s eyes, but another presence lurks underneath, grasping out blindly for Steve to hold. 

“There would be days when I was less the Soldier and more--”Bucky mashes his hand to his chest. “When I realized I was capable of reactions that weren’t limited to pain and the base instinct to keep the body alive. I would find myself in the middle of an authentic response that was mine and mine alone. Feelings that I could throw away or keep.” Steve watches him clasp at the air as if he is capturing those far away days, holding on tight lest they be taken from him. 

“I’d be eating a sandwich or smoking a really good cigarette and then bam,” Bucky whispers the last part, shaking his head slowly. Disappointment marking his beautiful face. “I would think, man. I wish Steve was here and once I let that thought in, there your gloomy boy face would be. It would be the only thing I could think about for the rest of the day. The more the body healed the more of you there was.” 

Steve clenches his jaw, working his chin in small rapid fire nods. “What do you want me to say to that? Huh, Bucky? Sorry? You need to hear sorry from me again?” His voice box strains with the urge to yell, with the failing effort to calm himself and another person. 

Bucky doesn’t possess the same self restraint. “You’re the one asking all the questions. What was your plan once you got the answers out of me? Mmm? What strategic design did you have in mind to fix your ol’ pal Bucky?”

Steve flings his hands into the air, arms up and away from himself as if Bucky is holding him at gunpoint. “This isn’t fair. You aren’t being fair.” He lets his hands slip, wincing at the childish shrill he allowed to escape his mouth. Another owl hoot cuts through the night, but this time it receives an answer. Steve wants to climb into the trees and strangle the filthy flying vermain. 

Bucky is unconcerned with their audience of woodland horrors and advances on Steve, tension etched across his face. “Fair, Steve. That’s the word you want to toss around. You really thought that we would shack up together and everything would just fix itself, didn’t you? Your entire life has been a series of unfair events. When are you going to wise up and accept things for the way they are?” He jabs his index finger back and forth between them. “Accept this for what it is.” 

It isn’t a question, it’s a demand. An unspoken ultimatum. One of them has got to give in, has to forfeit this game of distorting each other until one or both of them unwraps. It isn’t in Steve’s nature to give up, but he could lose to win Bucky. For all of his talk of split personalities and having more in common with a second hand printer that needed to be pounded to work correctly, this Bucky knew what he wanted out of his life with Steve. 

Steve’s worries dart and leap at him, pressuring him to act quickly, to be decisive. He takes a step back from Bucky, not paying attention to his footing, too caught up in what to say next. He doesn’t notice the tangle of tree roots until his shoes land in the middle of it, snagging Steve to the ground. The soft soil reaches for him, delivering a stinging shock across his cheeks. The mechanics of catching himself before making impact leave Steve, as well as the good sense he was born with, overridden by the awe of tripping in the first place. 

Bucky’s bright, booming cackle resounds throughout the forest and Steve’s neck sweats with beads of embarrassment. He spits out dirt, yearning for his electric toothbrush back home. Bucky is breathless with laughter, his hand on his stomach and the clink of his chain belt adds to the one man musical of Steve’s shame. He picks himself up, but doesn’t yet stand, ignoring the tree root digging in his ass and Bucky’s relentless chanting of, “Oh my fucking god, Oh my fucking god. Your dumb face.”  
Steve remains sitting, brushing the dirt from his hands onto his ruined jeans. He would have to shower again. “I hate nature,” He states. 

Bucky has calmed himself and when he looks down on Steve, his expression is full of sweet affection. He walks over, hand extended. “Oh, you poor sap,” he says tenderly. 

“Fuck you, dickwad,” Steve says with all the love in his heart. “Help me.” When Bucky heaves him to his feet, he is reminded of his quiet strength.

“Up you get,” Bucky snickers. 

Steve swats at him, the brief contact easing his bruised ego. They’re practically chest to chest, a snippet of space hovers, keeping them from touching. This close, Bucky has to lift his head if he wants to be eye to eye with Steve. His jaw has loosened from the steel edge it took on during their argument. “I don’t understand how you lead a battalion of men across war torn Europe wearing tights, yet you can’t keep upright for a walk in your own backyard?” Steve can fully appreciate Bucky’s mouth, firmly curving to coax all sorts of unspeakable acts out of him. 

How could he ever say no to Bucky? How could Steve not give him what he wants? A warm breeze twists around the two men, and Steve let’s the night air carry the last of his doubts away. “It’s different when you have other people to protect. When you need to reach a common goal,” Steve explains. “I think I could do just about anything, if it meant saving someone I cared about.” 

Bucky hums back at him, a tiny growl from his throat that yields a tremor from Steve’s diaphragm. Bucky’s sounds would be the death of them both. 

His hands are still covered in dirt and Steve can just make out the clumps in the darkness. “Bucky, I forgot to tell you how cute you look in the outfit,” He says it in a cool, unattached way. Steve hadn’t spotted any puddles along the way, but he was nothing if not innovative

Bucky huffs out a breath of annoyance. “This look isn’t meant to be cute. It’s-“  
Steve drags him closer, ridding them of any divide. He uses Bucky’s shirt to wipe his dirty hands clean, quieting the other man. “Yeah, Buck. You look so fucking cute,” He let’s each word drip with affection. “Absolutely sporting, in that get-up.” 

Bucky has been reduced to two glowing silver orbs, his eyes doubling in size. Steve finishes wiping his hands and gifts Bucky a showman’s sneer. “It’s past our dinner time, you know. Let’s head back and see what you can whip up.” 

******************************************************  
_Ten months previously._

They’re sitting down to an early dinner. Steve heated up four cans of Italian Wedding soup, estimating that this would be enough to tide them over. Steve’s grumbling stomach and Bucky’s blank face tell him that he is wrong, as he usually is about these sorts of things. He hadn’t been in charge of feeding them since the 1940s and his miscalculations on how many calories two super soldiers needed left them both grumpy and frequenting their grocery store more than he liked. 

“I think we still have Cheerios in the pantry,” Steve says to the bottom of his bowl. 

Bucky doesn’t answer. Instead he gets up, scraping his chair against the kitchen floor. His broad figure projects itself over Steve, the peak of his brows and the tilt of his head were replacements for the words he’d yet to say. They weren’t much of a mystery for Steve to work out. The frigid grey of his childhood friend’s stare was a replica of Steve’s own inner failings. Bucky takes both of their empty bowls to the sink leaving Steve to stare down at the table.

It’s a coppery clay color and retrofitted from an old diner. Bucky hauled it home one day after Steve had fallen asleep on the couch, hours lost to him until he kicked awake. The one room Steve felt the need to decorate was the small office that he used to paint, the rest of the house feels bloated with possibilities and he is thankful to Bucky for making the house a home. 

The thought circulates a pang of mourning inside of him. He pivots in the chair to gaze at Bucky who is making them both bowls of cereal, his one hand tasking better than Steve’s two fumbling ones. Everything feels surreal, reality abstract and much too bright with its permanence. Steve wonders if this is what happiness is supposed to feel like, soaked in tiny bits of past despair. Perhaps it’s witnessing the composed domestics of Bucky that forces him to speak. His voice startles Bucky who quickly hides his agitation. Steve notices because of how closely he watches him. 

“When you fell off that train, when I didn’t catch you, protect you the way I was supposed to,” Steve doesn’t check to see if Bucky is paying attention. His mind is stuck in the past, his stare stuck on the space that used to occupy his friend’s arm. “When you died I had the worst thought. ‘Now I have to live by myself’ and I’d never prepared for that.” He stops scanning for the missing appendage and searches Bucky’s face. “What kind of person—what kind of friend thinks that way?” 

Bucky scoffs and opens the silverware drawer, taking out two spoons and plopping them into the full cereal bowls. He extends one out for Steve to take, and the distant scrutiny Bucky grants him somehow makes him more beautiful. When Steve tries to take the bowl from him, Bucky tugs it back towards his chest, a silent pay attention motion. “I don’t think anyone was prepared for that,” he let’s Steve know. He releases the cereal to him. 

He says thank you while the other man sits back down with his own food. Steve digs his spoon in, noticing Bucky has mixed in the last of Lucky Charms into his own bowl, giving Steve the reminder of Cheerios. Steve hates the taste of bland artificial food coloring. 

Bucky has taken out a newspaper from someplace and Steve is struck by the oddity of the scene. He didn’t even know they got the paper delivered. His meal turns to lead inside of his gut, and his fingers lose control of the spoon, spilling milk on the table when it lands. Bucky raises his brows in question at him. “All right, there?” 

“Why are you here, Buck?” It’s what he wanted to ask him since he showed up to Stark Tower, but has been too afraid to hear the answer. He still is, but not knowing is its own form of torture.  
Bucky doesn’t appear touched by Steve’s courage. “I live here. Remember old man?”  
“That’s not what I’m asking and you know it, jackass.” Steve scowls, not up for a game of, ‘read between the lines.’ “Why are you here with me? You did a grand job of staying gone. There was no reason for you to come back.” It’s the truth and they both know it. Steve had dragged Sam all across the globe in search of Bucky who showed them why he had gained the reputation for being a ghost. 

Bucky leans back into the chair, bringing his left ankle up and across his right knee. He holds himself with an air of boredom, and he purses his lips at Steve with distaste. “Do you not want me here?” The voice that comes out of him isn’t angry, it sounds taped over and recorded. “Did you want to live alone?” 

Steve frowns. “That’s not what I said. You know I want you here.” 

“Is that something I know?” 

Steve’s shoulders touch his ears and the world swims with tears that come on too easy these days. “Okay, so you’re going with this tactic? Is this how you want to do things? I’m saying something to you.” Steve would not flip the table, but his fist ached with the familiar need to hit. 

“No, you aren’t. You’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Oh, and your poor dead friend, Buckaroo. He gets your sympathy.”  
Steve sweeps both bowls off the table and onto the floor with one purposeful arc of his forearm. It’s an automatic action that’s done before he has time to process why he’s doing it. What purpose does it serve and for whom? Steve doesn’t let the small mean voice in the back of his head tell him that he was waiting for Bucky to say something cruel. Words worthy of this violence. Their pitiful dinner laid to waste on the kitchen floor. 

Bucky doesn’t shout or curse, he instead stares down at his newspaper, wet and ruined with milk. Steve works his mouth open to say sorry, to explain he wasn’t going for damage, but he can’t find the effort. All his energy used up on a senseless performance. Bucky puts both of his feet on the floor and leans down to spread the damp newspaper over the spillage. He gets up and comes back with paper towels, crouching down to clean up Steve’s mess. 

Steve slides down to the floor beside him, his back and chest vibrating with dry sobs. He takes over, picking up the wet clumps of food, Bucky’s hand resting on his thigh. “We’ll have to make a trip to the grocery,” he says to Steve. His words are practical and Steve nods without diverting his eyes from the soggy chaos he has made. Bucky keeps talking, skating his icy fingertips under Steve’s shirt, a painful kindness on his bare skin. “I’ll mop later. Otherwise the floor will get sticky. We could get ants.” Then, “It’s probably best if I take on most of the cooking.” 

Steve nods. His hands have shaped the wreckage of his fury and confusion into one gigantic clump of spongy paper. The chilly caress of the other man sends one bleak flicker of hope to Steve’s brain. The hope for Bucky to understand that Steve can force him to understand. He tells the wrecked newspaper as much as he tells Bucky. 

“I just need it all to mean something. I need everything to stop being so meaningless.”  
Steve’s chin is encased in a freezing grip, his vulnerabilities pinned under Bucky’s stare. Winged optimism flutters in his throat like a hummingbird and he thinks maybe this time it will burst through. Bucky’s face doesn’t change as he rips the wings off the bird. It isn’t personal. 

“Not everything means something, Steve. When are you gonna learn?”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
They’re out of the woods and back home before Steve can decide on what he will do to Bucky. He doesn’t need an elaborate battle plan to handle him, but he stops short of throwing Bucky in the dusty yard and pinching his ass until he screams. Steve could do better. 

He is liberal with his pinches, leaving a pattern of half crescent nail marks along the lateral head of Bucky’s tricep. Each needle-like pinch is delivered methodically, one razor blade squeeze that Steve saves for Bucky’s radial nerve. He stops in the glow back porch light, the pads of his fingers using the nail marks as grapple hooks. Bucky chokes out a desperate whine, and Steve gobbles up the excitement that hugs them in.

He is going to beat the shit out of Bucky. Steve hums this fact in his ear, molding Bucky’s body to perfection. He shivers despite the extra weight and the June heat, gurgling out his answer. Steve thinks he catches clipped pleas of his name and gasping coughs of “Yes, please.”

He loosens his embrace of Bucky, running a soil laden finger through the strands of Bucky’s hair. They’ve been fucking non-stop for the past couple days, fucking instead of discussing the ever-widening gulf that lays with them in bed. 

He drops his arms, making Bucky take accountability for his own weight, knowing he would catch himself. The porch light frames a blinding halo, swaddling the other man in a buttery manufactured glare. Steve paces two steps back, getting his fill of this animated Bucky. His hair is now a nest of tangles and several moths beat a furious wind near his right ear. The buzzing drives Steve insane, but Bucky is unaffected.

“I need you to find a way to let me know if I hurt you.” Steve never asks Bucky what he looks like to him now. A man-child playing at being a Captain. A frail little boy who never knew his limits. “I won’t always get it right. I can’t,” he admits. 

Bucky steps out of the light and into Steve’s shadow, cupping his hand into the enormous meat of Steve’s deltoid. Bucky taps his thumb in the curve of his collarbone, playing out a rhythmic hollow thump. Steve is a void of blaring endless want and he is close to tears, close to apologizing for staining Bucky with it when he kisses Steve silent. His tongue is a tame creature pushing it’s way underneath Steve’s, licking a message to be decoded. 

“I trust you,” the muscular critter discloses. “I trust you to figure it out for us. To be right even when you’re wrong.” Steve accepts these terms, knowing the conditions would be a prison on the outside looking in. His arms cage the other man, his own response a severe protection of his best friend’s body. Steve could mess up dinner and spend hours reading on the sofa until he nodded off in front of the television. He could bring home outlandish food that neither one of them could prepare and never learn how their roomba worked as long as he took care of Bucky. 

“Steve,” Bucky’s desperate wails pull at him. He puckers one last redden wet kiss to him before securing a bruising hold on his elbow. Bucky leaps for another kiss, but Steve stops him with a teeth rattling shake. “Steve,” he wails again, a one trick pony that needs to be laid out to pasture. He tunes his voice to an old radio frequency, using the same jingle Steve heard him try out on every girl that lived in their neighborhood. “Stevie, sweetheart,” he smugly purrs out. “Babydoll-” 

Steve is witnessing the best moment of his life. He’s going to ruin that pretty smug smile. “Shut the fuck up, and you might get what you want, Bucky.” That cocky grin slides off and onto the front porch. Steve leans in like he’s telling a secret. “You need it bad. I get it, but you gotta stop that useless talk.” 

He throws open the back door, pushing them both past the threshold. Steve navigates them through the dark kitchen, reaching up with one hand to tug on the overhead light while still clutching on to Bucky. “Sit,” Steve commands, lowering him into a chair. He takes stock of Bucky with wiggling fingers, causing the sitting man to giggle whenever they touch upon a sensitive area. 

“Quit laughing, jerkoff,” Steve retorts, lifting his hands. He sits them on his hips, placing a determined mask of displeasure on. Staring down at him, Steve sees the dirt, evidence of his ownership, clinging to the once beautiful green shirt. Clucking his tongue, Steve shakes his head sadly. 

“Look at the state of your clothes,” he says, waving down at Bucky. “You look like something a dog buried in the garden.” 

Bucky groans when he notices the amount of dirt on him. “I didn’t know I would be tussling with Bigfoot tonight,” he scolds. “Who knew the big hairy guy liked a good grope?”

Steve is on him faster than his brain can process, fisting Bucky’s dirty hair to wrench it at an angle that would be torture for anyone else. The hiss of breath that comes out of Bucky isn't at the right setting for Steve. “Huh, what about if we-,” he digs his nails into the tender spots of Bucky’s scalp aiming for maximum pain. Steve’s aim is true by the joyful squeals that emit from the other man and he awards Bucky by licking the dimple on his chin. 

“Jeez, Buck. This face.” He eases his grip, but stays eye level, marveling at the particular shade of raspberry that Bucky’s has colored. Steve strips the flat of his tongue up the bridge of Bucky’s nose who squeaks out, “Yuck.” 

Steve hides his grin in a sleazy leer. “This is the type of face a guy has to split open.” 

“Wouldn't be the first time.” Bucky chuckles. It’s a test wrapped in a joke. Steve’s failed this portion before. 

Bucky’s chin fits perfectly in between Steve’s teeth bestowing upon him sputtering yelps of satisfaction. Closing his eyes to the chomp of skin, Steve sets the crying man free with a shake of his head. The room soaks in the cries and Steve raps on the table twice, speaking loudly.

“Hey, now.” He leans back against the table, hands folded in front of his crotch like a performing choir boy. Steve’s dick grows at the sight of Bucky's tear-stained face. “Shush yourself, buddy. That by far isn't going to be the worst thing I do to you tonight.” 

Bucky babbles out nonsense, wiping his face with the heel of his hand. Steve stops him, pressing a kiss of caution along his knuckles. “Here. Let me,” he says, raising a helping hand. The slaps he lands is hard enough to knock Bucky from the chair, making his croak of stolen oxygen Steve’s new favorite sound. 

It's vicious, but there’s a lot of love in that slap. 

Bucky, for his part, lets himself fall, cradling the wooden floor like an old friend. Steve appreciates his theatrics and makes sure to give an equally believable performance. 

“Buck, what are you doing on the floor?” Steve crouches down, propping Bucky up to sit on his ass. He clucks concern at the other man, who stares back, his face contoured with ecstasy. Steve can feel the love dripping off him and he hides in the crook of Bucky’s neck. “You got the kitchen all dirty, idiot. You know what I gotta do now, huh?” 

Bucky tearful ‘No’s’ come out and stroke along Steve’s dick. He collects himself and pulls away from Bucky’s sweaty neck. His best friend, his favorite plaything, trembles in his arms and Steve works every perverse thought he has into his grin. “I’m going to take you upstairs and hang you out of the window.” Steve slings Bucky over his shoulder in one swooping hold. “I’m going to smack the dirt off of you with that old carpet beater you think I don’t know you're hiding. I’m going to-” 

Steve never stops talking as they make their way upstairs, ensuring Bucky’s skull thumps against his shoulder blade each step he climbs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful Nano group and to my beta readers who can be found on Ao3 at thoughtsappear and sultrybutdamage. For right now I'll let this story rest.


End file.
